


Glitch

by Morimaitar



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Amputation, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Branding, Breathplay, Collars, Conditioning, Consensual Non-Consent, Creepy Roman Sionis, Daddy Kink, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Head Injury, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt No Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Knifeplay, Loss of Identity, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ownership, Painful Sex, Plot Twists, Possessive Behavior, Romin Week 2021, Science Fiction Elements, Sensory Deprivation, Temporary Blindness, Torture, Violence, Warnings May Change, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-22 23:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30046311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar
Summary: As hard as he tries, Jason can never quite remember his life before Roman took him in. All he knows is that Batman left him for dead and Roman was kind enough to put him back together.Jason is so lucky to have Roman. So very luc̴k̵y indeed.
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Roman Sionis & Jason Todd, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd
Comments: 27
Kudos: 46
Collections: Romin Week 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Technically this fic was originally for Romin Week Day 5, but the plot started to spiral and here we are. 
> 
> A few notes: First, this fic makes use of some special characters which unfortunately make the fic not quite conducive to text-to-voice—please let me know if you would like these removed and I'll provide you with a PDF. Second, I'll be adding additional tags and characters as I go to keep things a surprise. Believe it or not, but I actually know what I am doing this time ;-)
> 
> Many thanks to the Romin server for giving me the most _wicked_ ideas. I love you all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romin Week 2021: Day 3—Collars, Day 7—Daddy Kink, and Day 8—Torture

Roman likes it when it hurts. 

Knives are his favorite. He likes to drag them up and down Jason’s back, leaving shallow cuts that bleed into the sheets. Sometimes he peels away the skin in thin strips, centimeter by agonizing centimeter, leaving Jason a mess of bloody ribbons. Sometimes he carves his initials into Jason’s chest. And sometimes he gets right to the point, sliding the blade between Jason’s ribs slowly, smirking as blood spills over his knuckles and screams rip through Jason’s throat. 

No more knives tonight. Roman has already cut him up plenty, slicing tally marks up and down the inside of his arms. Forty-seven cuts, one for each grand Jason stole from Roman’s suppliers. 

(Jason doesn’t remember stealing from Roman. But if Roman says he did, then surely he must have. Roman would never lie to him.)

A steady river of blood is dripping down his arms, staining the silken sheets beneath him. Everything is shaking and it’s getting harder and harder to hold himself upright, but Roman wanted him on his hands and knees tonight and Jason can’t disobey an order. He stays upright, jerking with the impact of Roman’s hips slamming against his own. It’s been five minutes and thirty-two seconds since Roman first took out his cock and thrust inside him. Five minutes and thirty-three seconds. Thirty-four. Jason doesn't feel anything below his waist anymore, but still he cries into the pillow, curling his fingers into the bloodied sheets.

Roman growls in response, digging his fingers into the grooves of Jason’s hips. Color blossoms from his touch. His pace quickens. Harder. Faster. After seventeen seconds, he reaches out, grabs Jason’s hair, and yanks his head back far as it will go. 

Jason whimpers. Roman likes it when he whimpers. 

The man’s gloved fingers close around his throat, squeezing until Jason’s vision begins to flicker. He chokes on his tongue and writhes, desperate to suck air down into his lungs, desperate to claw at the iron grip around his neck. The average human can hold their breath for anywhere between thirty seconds to two minutes. It has been fifty-eight seconds. Jason can feel his adam's apple bobbing against the cage of Roman’s hand. White creeps into the edges of his vision. 

“That’s it,” Roman growls into his ear. “You can take it.” 

Another whimper. Jason knows he’s close, can tell from the jerking of Roman’s hips, the way the man’s breath comes in uneven bursts. He’ll want Jason to say something soon. That’s always how it goes. 

“Please,” Jason gasps. Chokes, really. There’s not much air left inside him. “Please, d—daddy. _Please._ ” 

Roman’s fist tightens. His free hand digs into Jason’s waist, hard enough to break the delicate vessels beneath the skin. With a grunt, he comes, trapping Jason’s hips against his own as he rides through his orgasm. Then, finally, it’s over. His hands fall away. 

Jason gasps, feeling his lungs expand the way they were designed to. His arms, still slick with blood, threaten to collapse under the weight of his body. But he can’t go, not until Roman tells him to.

Behind him, he hears the man wiping himself down, the sound of him buttoning his pants and fastening his belt. Roman lets out a satisfied sigh and Jason closes his eyes as the tension leaves his limbs. He was good. It’s _over_ over. He’ll be able to go soon.

But not yet.

A shadow falls over him. My good boy,” Roman purrs, dragging a finger over the bloody mess of Jason’s back. “Such a filthy slut.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Jason replies. 

“Did _he_ ever use you like this?” 

He. Batman. 

Jason shakes his head because that’s what Roman wants. “No, Sir.” 

One of Roman’s fingers finds a fresh cut along his bicep. He digs a gloved finger into the opening, and Jason hisses in pain. “Come now, Doll,” the man murmurs. “Don’t lie to me.” 

“I…” Jason winces as the pressure intensifies on the cut. “I didn’t like it when—when he—”

“When who did what?”

“I didn’t like it when Batman fucked me,” he finishes.

Roman smirks. “Do you like it when I fuck you?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Jason replies quickly. 

“Because…?”

“Because I’m your whore.”

The man nods approvingly. “I thought so,” he says, slapping the curve of Jason’s ass. It doesn’t hurt, but that is not the intent. Roman expects him to be humiliated, to duck his head and blush scarlet. 

So he does. 

Roman clicks his tongue. “Look at you,” he says again. “A filthy mess.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Go clean up and go to sleep.” 

Jason doesn’t move. _You didn’t say the word,_ he thinks, curling his fingers into the sheets. _I have to wait for the word._

Then Roman says, “Dismissed,” and Jason breathes a sigh of relief. 

He climbs off the bed, picks up his torn clothing, and limps naked out into the cold hallway of the penthouse. A few of Roman’s men ogle him and Jason knows he deserves it. What a mess he is, dripping blood and come over the marble floors. He’s so lucky Roman was kind enough to take him in and give him a home after Batman left him for dead. So very l̷u̶c̴k̵y̶ indeed. 

Jason walks into his room and shuts the door behind him. Then he steps into the shower and lets the water wash down his skin. The forty-seven tally marks on his arms seep gently, staining the water pink. They don’t hurt anymore. Maybe the water has made him numb. Still, he waits for the blood to stop before stepping out of the shower and patting himself dry. 

Roman doesn’t like it when Jason makes a mess. 

By the time he is wearing fresh clothes, it is easier for Jason to walk. He is able to go back into the hallway and mop up the mess he left behind. On his hands and knees again. Roman didn’t ask him to do it but he knows that this is what Roman wants. Sometimes he has Jason crawl over the floor and lick up every drop. He’s done that twelve times in the last month. 

Paper towels and bleach are preferable to his tongue. 

Only when the floors are clean does Jason return to his room. First he falls into routine, and then he falls asleep. 

***

Jason doesn’t remember much before Roman took him in. 

He remembers Batman hurting him. That much is clear. He remembers a figure, the sudden descent of black, two eyes glowing like hellfire. Roman says that Jason used to know the man behind the mask, but Jason doesn’t remember any names or faces. Only pain. Weeks and weeks of every type of pain imaginable.

Roman says that Jason was broken every which way by the time he was found. His limbs were bent backwards, like a doll’s. Because that’s all Jason was to Batman. A do̷l̷l. Jason is so, so lucky that Roman lets him be more than that, especially since Jason used to fight by Batman’s side. Roman would have every right to tear him apart, but he doesn’t, because Roman is a good man. 

Jason thinks maybe he loves Roman. 

***

He’s not allowed to go out at night, because that’s when Batman goes out. 

“If he sees you, he will hurt you,” Roman purrs, playing with a steak knife. 

On his knees at Roman’s side, Jason watches the blade glint in the light from the bronze chandelier, watches its serrated edge reflect the dark mahogany table. Dinner has been over for quite some time, and yet the knife remains, shiny and unsullied. Jason isn’t allowed knives, not in the penthouse. He isn’t allowed to have a lot of things, like socks or shoes or food. Sometimes he isn’t allowed to wear clothes at all. He walks around naked with nothing but his collar, a thick leather band with Roman’s initials on the outside and the inside, against his throat. His joints get so stiff he can hardly move when Roman finally decides to fuck him. Roman is so warm in comparison by then, burning like hellfire as he shoves his cock down Jason’s throat. 

Tonight Jason is allowed to wear clothes, though not much. Slacks, a button-up shirt, and a tight-fitting vest. The collar is barely visible. Jason wonders if he is supposed to resemble one of Roman’s men, the ones who are worth so much more than he is. The thought brings him a small measure of hop̸e̷, if he can call it that. 

“Do you understand what Batman will do to you, if he sees you?” Roman asks him. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jason replies.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“He will kill me.” 

Roman tuts softly. “Come now, Jason,” he says. “Don’t be so dismissive.” 

Jason frowns; he had not realized that his words had come across as such. “Of course, Sir. I’m sorry.” 

“Do you know how easy it would be to kill you?” Roman asks. 

“Very easy.” 

“Hold out your arm.”

Jason obeys, placing his arm face-up on the dining table. Silver and pink scars cross the soft skin of his inner arm. Forty-seven of them are fresh, twenty-eight are not. There are burns too, and bruises, old and new and somewhere in between. 

Roman picks up his arm and places the tip of the knife above the darkest vein. “So simple, and yet so permanent,” he mutters. “I could take your everything, right here, right now. Would you like that?”

The knife begins to cut into the tender skin of his wrist. At once a bead of blood pushes to the surface, rolling down the curve of Jason’s thumb toward his elbow. “No, Sir,” he replies. “I would not like that.”

“Are you sure?” Roman chuckles. “Death is the great equalizer. A man once dead is no better or worse than any other.”

They’ve had talks like this before. Many times. Roman loves to tell him of the certainty of death, of the finality of it, of how much Jason still has to lose. Li̸f̵e̸ is all he has, really, and if that’s gone… 

“I’m sure,” Jason says. 

Roman brings the tip of the knife to Jason’s cheek instead, nicking the soft skin above his jaw. “Sometimes I wonder what mortality is like,” he muses. With a smirk, he swipes a bare finger over the fresh cut on Jason’s face, as gentle as a man caressing a lover. He then stares at the blood for quite some time, perhaps trying to see something Jason can’t understand. Surely there must be so much Jason doesn’t understand. “It must be very frightening, knowing how weak you are in the face of the universe.” 

“Very,” says Jason.

“It is a pity you are so mortal.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Roman sighs, wiping the blood on the collar of Jason’s shirt. “I’ll do my best to protect you, of course,” he says. “And shape you, too. You’ve committed so many indiscretions, it’s a miracle that Batman didn’t just shoot you through the skull and get it over with instantly. Not worth the effort to torture, if you ask me.” 

Jason says nothing. It’s not his turn, not yet. 

“But perhaps there is hope for you yet,” the man continues. Slowly he scans Jason’s body, eyes rich with a hunger Jason knows quite well. A wicked smile tugs at his lips. “At the very least, you would make a lovely decoration. Perhaps a coat rack, or a punching bag.” 

The bruises beneath his clothes begin to ache. Yet Jason stays still, locked tight in the same position he’s been in for one hour and thirty-two minutes. He doesn’t dare break routine, not even as he feels Roman’s fingers playing with his hair. 

“Or perhaps I’ll just keep you around for my men’s pleasure,” Roman says, and a bolt of fear travels down Jason’s spine. “Would you like that, Doll?” 

“No, Sir,” replies Jason.

“Why not?”

The answer comes easily, by rote: “Because I belong to you and only you.” 

Roman chuckles softly. “Good boy,” he mutters, dragging his fingers through Jason’s hair. The touch is gentle. He doesn’t tug or yank or scratch, but pets, rhythmically stroking his hair until Jason gets lost in the sensation of it. 

_A good mood,_ Jason thinks. He likes it when Roman is in a good mood. When Roman is in a good mood, there’s a thirty-eight percent chance he won’t hurt Jason, and a seventeen percent chance he will go to bed without touching Jason at all. Jason hop̸e̷s that the latter comes true. 

The thought gives him pause. 

It isn’t that Jason always desires Roman. Some nights Roman wants him to moan and beg and scream, and Jason wants him with every fiber of his being, relishing in the filthy words and coming untouched on Roman’s command. And other nights Roman tells him to struggle, to fight and _beg_ and _scream_ , and Jason does that too, screaming his lungs out until Roman stuffs his mouth with fabric and fucks him until something breaks. He wants what Roman tells him to want. That’s the way it always has been and always will be. 

He isn’t supposed to want things on his own. Something must be wrong. What he should do is tell Roman of his failure, and let the man punish him by whipping his naked thighs until the skin that’s left is raw and striped red. Jason should do this. 

But he doesn’t. 

“Something wrong, Doll?” Roman asks suddenly. His fingers are still tangled in Jason’s hair, but his hand feels heavier, more dangerous. 

Jason opens his mouth to tell the truth. Instead, he says, “Nothing, Sir.”

Something dark flashes behind Roman’s eyes. “Are you sure?” 

_No,_ Jaso̷n thinks. 

“Yes,” Jason lies, keeping his face blank. “I am sure.” 

At once Roman’s hand falls from his head. The man pulls his lips tight and sighs deeply, pushing his chair away from the table to stand. “Right,” he mutters. “Another fucking ▉▉▉▉▉▉.”

The world goes w̸h̶i̸t̴e̴.

***

Sometimes Jason loses track of time. 

It’s as if a fuse has blown in his brain. One moment he is one place, doing one thing, and the next everything is different. Roman says that it’s lasting damage from all the things Batman did to him. He’s probably correct. Jason remembers being hit in the head, vaguely, as if in a nightmare. There are shadows and the idea of pain, though the actual sensation eludes him. 

This time, when Jason comes back, he’s in Roman’s bedroom, sitting straight-backed at the edge of Roman’s bed. He is naked. There is blood on his face and on his hands, but Jason knows without checking that it doesn’t belong to him. 

When he looks up, he sees that Roman is standing before him, wearing his white suit with the black tie and pocket square, as well as his sleek leather gloves. Just beyond, night is dressed in pink and indigo as it descends over the Gotham skyline. Jason does a quick calculation in his head and decides that a day has passed since the last moment he remembers. His feelings on this are negligible. What is important is making sure that Roman is happy. 

He seems to be happy. 

“You’ve done so well,” Roman purrs, taking Jason’s face in hand. Gently he runs a thumb down Jason’s cheek, across and between his lips. He tastes like leather and the residue gunpowder. “Who knew there was something of worth under all that ▉▉▉▉▉▉?” 

Jason blinks. “Thank you, Sir.” 

“Good boys like you deserve a reward, hmm? What do you think?”

A trick question. Jason wants what Roman wants. Last night was a mistake, a fluke. He can’t let Roman know what happened, and he will n̵o̶t̸ let it happen again. 

“I would like that, Sir,” he replies smoothly. 

The thumb slips further into his mouth. Jason closes his mouth around the digit and swipes his tongue over the leather, sucking softly just as he knows Roman likes. A second finger slips inside as Roman’s other hand finds the back of his head and takes his dark locks in a tight, unrelenting grip.

Roman is growing aroused. With his eyes at the level of Roman’s crotch Jason can see the man hardening in his dress pants, can nearly make out the outline of his cock straining against his briefs. Then the fingers begin to thrust in and out of his mouth and Jason looks into Roman’s face and imitates the heavy-lidded expression of lust. 

“That’s it,” Roman mutters, pushing the digits deeper into Jason’s mouth. “You like this. You want me.” 

_I want you,_ Jason thinks. A moan rumbles throughout his chest.

The fingers pull out of his mouth with a _pop._ Now they are on his face, hot and wet as they stroke circles around the blood dried on his cheeks. Roman looks down at him expectantly. “Tell me how much you want me,” he says. 

An urgency hums beneath Jason’s skin. “I want you so bad,” he blurts out, eyeing the front of Roman’s pants. _So hard._ “God, I need you. I love you. Only you. Please.” 

“What do you need, baby boy?” 

Jason’s eyes flicker up to Roman’s as he turns the man’s words over in his head, working out what kind of night this is going to be. Finally the answer comes to him. “I need your cock, daddy,” he replies, sticking out his lower lip in a pout. “Please, daddy. _Please._ ” 

Roman smirks. “Show me how much you need me, baby.”

Lifting his hands to Roman’s belt, Jason fumbles with the buckle, as clumsy and desperate as he is supposed to be. Roman likes it when Jason succumbs to desirous abandon. Roman likes it when Jason wastes no time in freeing his cock and sucking it down greedily, letting his tongue slide over the underside as he takes more and more of him into his mouth. Roman likes it when Jason moans and writhes as he licks and kisses his way around the man’s length. Roman likes all these things, and more.

The hand in his hair tightens. Above him, Roman hums with pleasure, his eyes dark and heavy as he stares down at Jason. Jason can feel the man’s gaze on his face but he knows not to look up, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he cradles Roman’s cock against his cheek and drags his tongue from base to tip. He moans again, jerking his hips, aching for something to grind against. 

“Greedy,” Roman mutters. The hand in Jason’s hair tightens its grip once more, forcing his head backwards so that Roman can feed more of his cock into Jason’s mouth. His pulse quickens, throbbing against Jason’s tongue as he begins to thrust roughly. “Is this what you want? You want Daddy to fuck your mouth?” 

Jason nods eagerly, swallowing Roman’s cock. When it hits the back of his throat his eyes brim with tears, then Roman jerks his hips back and there is a brief moment of relief before he plunges back in. Again and again and again. The hands in his hair keep Jason still as Roman’s movements grow aggressive, choking him. 

_I wa̷n̶t this,_ he thinks, counting the seconds until he loses consciousness. Roman’s pulse has passed one hundred and twenty beats per minute. Either he is going to come soon or he will pull out and fuck him a different way. There is a sixty-three percent chance he will want the latter. Daddy likes it when baby rides him. 

He has seventeen seconds of consciousness left when Roman pulls out. The man steps away and sighs as he sinks into an armchair, fisting his cock casually. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dark. “Come here, baby,” he orders. 

Jason remembers to bat his eyelashes. Saliva is smeared over his cheeks, dripping down his chin. “Yes, daddy,” he purrs, scrambling off the bed to sit on Roman’s lap. 

Roman doesn’t take his time prepping him. That doesn’t matter. Jason’s feelings don’t matter. He’s so lucky that Roman wants him in the first place. He’s so lucky that Roman likes to feel him up and bite his collarbone and suck marks into his neck. He’s so lucky that Roman owns him. 

So, so l̸u̸c̴ky. 

He doesn’t face Roman when he rides him. Roman doesn’t like that. He says that there’s something wrong with Jason’s eyes. Jason doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t mind. If Roman isn’t looking at him then he can let his mind go blank even as his mouth makes filthy noises and his hands grasp desperately at his body and at Roman’s. 

Sometimes he wonders about the time he misses and the blood that shows up on his body. Sometimes he wonders if Roman has him hurt people. If he did work for Batman—which of course he did, Roman said that he did—then Jason is probably good at hurting people. After all, Batman was good at hurting him. 

Then there are the times Jason tries to remember. Something, anything. Nothing new ever comes to him. There are only shadows and pain. Jason thinks maybe he didn’t have a life before Roman. 

And then there are the times he looks out the window and counts the airplanes that pass by. Every so often he spots a satellite. Once he even saw a shooting star. Jason knows that shooting stars grant wishes, but he can’t remember if he wished for something. It’s not his place to be wishing for anything.

When Roman’s fingers dig into his waist and his breath is hot and frantic, Jason snaps back into place. He lets loose a string of pleas, begging Roman to _fuck me_ and _keep going_ and _don’t stop daddy please don’t stop._ Twelve and a half seconds pass before Roman comes inside him with an aborted shout, and Jason stills, waiting expectantly to be dismissed. 

He isn’t. 

Gloved hands wander aimlessly over his torso, tracing the muscle, tweaking a nipple. Jason whimpers and falls back onto Roman’s body, breathing hard against the crook of his neck. He can feel the man’s cock growing soft inside him. He wants it out, then feels guilty for wanting something on his own. 

“All mine,” Roman mutters. 

“Y—yes, Sir,” Jason breathes, closing his eyes so that Roman can look at him. He curls his fingers around the arms of the chair, feeling the cool air of the room seep into his joints. He wants to put on clothes. He wants to clean himself up and go to sleep. 

No, that’s not right. He wants to be right here, with Roman, who is so very, very warm. 

Roman’s hand travels up, coming to a rest around Jason’s throat. When he squeezes, he squeezes gently, just hard enough to restrict, but not cut off, the flow of air. “You need me,” he says, breath hot in Jason’s ear. “Without me, you’d be nothing. You’d have nothing.” 

“Yes, Sir,” says Jason. 

“What are you?” 

“I’m—I’m your whore.” 

The man clicks his tongue. “Try again, Doll.” 

“I’m your whore, Daddy,” Jason says, blushing at the indiscretion. “I belong to you.” 

“That’s right.” 

Roman removes his hand from Jason’s throat and stands suddenly, pushing him onto the hard marble floor. Jason’s hands and knees strike stone. Pain travels in waves up his limbs, gathering in joints, his core. He whimpers again, trembling as the sensation sinks into him. Semen and lubricant drip down his legs and his face grows hot with humiliation. 

_Stupid,_ he thinks. _Weak. Mortal._

“Dismissed,” Roman says casually.

Jason finds the strength to stand. He counts to ten, wipes his mind of emotion, then heads into the bathroom to clean himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://morimaitar.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by viewers like you.
> 
> Romin Week 2021: Day 1—Branding, Day 3—Collars

He doesn’t dream. Or at least, he doesn’t remember his dreams.

Every once in a while Jason comes back to reality and catches the tail-end of an image in his head. Like the last moments before the credits roll. The images are always blurred and always incomplete. Most of them are violent.

Something striking his temple. Dirt falling down his throat. Strange tools inside his flesh. Watching his skin melt until the flames consume his eyes and everything goes white. The sensation of falling.

Only once did Jason dream of someone kissing him. He thinks this person was Roman. He hop̸e̷s this person was Roman. 

Jason doesn’t want to belong to anyone else. 

***

Something shatters, and Jason flinches. Carefully he sets down the glock he has been cleaning, lining it up so that the barrel is parallel to the edge of the edge of the table. There are no bullets in the chamber or anywhere else he has access to. After all, he is only allowed bullets when Roman takes him to the firing range, or to a meeting, or to those dark, damp warehouses where he keeps the men who’ve crossed him. Roman likes it when Jason is the one to pull the trigger. He’s always so gentle after Jason pulls the trigger. 

Tonight is not a gentle night. Roman’s curses echo down the hall, followed by more shattering and the thud of rapid footsteps. He sounds dangerous. Very dangerous. Jason figures that there is a good chance Roman will want to hurt him tonight. 

He steps away from the gun and stands still in the center of the room. The air is always so cold in the penthouse, colder still in the study, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and sprawling empty space. Beneath his bare feet the marble floor feels like ice. 

Jason stares at the marble and waits for Roman to come to him. He reasons he has around twenty-five seconds before Roman figures out where he is and walks through the study door. Twenty-five seconds left for him to decide how to please Roman; twenty-five seconds left for him to wonder why he doesn’t want to. How ungrateful he is, to let his own wants outweigh Roman’s. No wonder Roman is angry—he knows everything, after all. In three seconds he will walk through that door and give Jason exactly what he deserves. Two seconds. One.

Roman storms inside, face twisted in anger. “You dirty little slut,” he snarls, and Jason averts his eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? You fucking whore.” 

“Sir—” 

“Don’t speak. A fucking. Word.” 

Jason clamps his mouth shut, swallowing an apology. He watches Roman’s reflection as it crosses the floor, coming to a stop right in front of him. Jason tenses, feeling the cold fury directed at his face even as his eyes remain fixed on the marble. Black stone cut with white. The slabs are eighteen inches across and fit together almost seamlessly. 

Suddenly there is a crack of skin against skin and Jason’s face ignites with pa̴i̸n̶. He sucks down a gasp, fighting not to stumble back and place pressure on his burning cheek. Tears well behind his eyes. Through the blur he makes out Roman’s hand still raised, his palm blushing from the force of the slap. 

Then Roman grabs him roughly by the collar and slaps him again. The force of it has Jason pulling against the man’s grip as the pain spreads across his face and down his neck. He barely has time to register the misstep before Roman’s fist lands in his gut, once, twice, driving the air from his lungs. As he chokes through the pain, the hand around his collar yanks violently, dragging him across the floor. Jason stumbles blindly, struggling to stay on his feet. 

Suddenly, Roman lets go. “On your knees,” he growls. Already his hands are at his belt, tugging the leather through the loops along the top of his slacks. 

Jason obeys without a word, sinking to his knees. He watches Roman’s hands, the way the knuckles lighten as the man squeezes his belt, dragging the leather through his fist. “How should I—” 

The buckle of the belt comes down hard across his face. Skin tears open; blood fills his mouth. Jason coughs, spraying red over the floor. 

“Keep your filthy mouth  _ shut, _ ” Roman snarls. “Not another  _ sound  _ without my permission, do you understand?” 

Slowly, Jason feels himself nod. There’s a flash of silver, and pa̴i̸n̶ erupts along the other side of his face. The blows rain down. Knuckles meet his jaw, his ear. Something crunches. Blood spurts out of his nose and drips off his chin. 

“You belong to  _ me! _ ” Roman roars. A sharp crack, and Jason tastes leather. Another, and his vision goes white. “Me! Not the Bat. Not that blue bitch. You are  _ mine.  _ I  _ own  _ you.” 

Jason opens his mouth and hot blood pours over his lips.  _ Bad,  _ he thinks. He doesn’t remember Roman being this angry before. Maybe if he—

“I gave you  _ life!  _ And what is my thanks? You, whoring yourself out to the first pretty face you find.” Roman laughs cruelly. “I suppose I should have known better than to expect loyalty from a stupid fucking insect. Maybe I should just kill you and rid the world of one more pathetic slut.” 

Jason shakes his head frantically, trying to make sense of the man’s words. He knows he lied to Roman. But whoring himself out? He didn’t—he wouldn’t—

A fist closes around his collar and drags him toward something he can’t see. Jason kicks his legs, trying to find solid footing. The floor is freezing cold and wet with blood. 

“I trusted you, Doll _ ,” _ Roman says. His voice is suddenly very even and controlled—sentimental, even. And yet it is frightening enough to send a chill through Jason’s veins. “It seems I had deluded myself into thinking you were grateful for all I have done for you. And you know how I  _ hate _ to be taken for a fool.” 

He lets go of Jason. The floor is hard and unforgiving beneath his spine. Jason wishes he could speak, wishes he could swear to Roman that he would never betray him, wishes he could beg for forgiveness. Or maybe he just wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Vaguely, he is aware of hands on his body, tearing his shirt open, ripping off his boxers and throwing them aside. The cold bites his naked skin, bringing with it some strange measure of relief. At least it isn’t pain. 

When he is fully naked, Jason waits. Waits for instruction. Waits for some indication of what Roman wants from him, so that he can do his job and remain here with Roman. Remain alive. 

He doesn’t want to die. 

Roman looks down at him, wearing a tight-lipped smile that soon tugs into a smirk. “Here’s what is going to happen, Doll,” he says casually. “You are going to apologize. And then I’m going to punish you. What do you think?” 

Jason opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by a kick to his ribs. He curls against the blow, biting back a whimper. 

“I forgot,” Roman says sharply. “You don’t think. You’re just an ungrateful whore.”

_ But I am grateful,  _ Jason thinks. He would never betray Roman. There is no way—not in a million years—

Roman drags the belt through his hands. “On the desk,” he orders. 

Jason’s legs shake as he climbs to his feet and bends over the desk, gripping the edge as blood drips from his nose onto the sleek glass surface. Behind him he can hear the creak of cabinets opening, the click of Roman’s shoes against the floor. After a quick calculation he decides there is a ninety-three percent chance that Roman will use the belt on him. Roman is good with a belt. He always knows where to aim to hurt Jason the most and where to aim to leave the biggest marks. 

Yes, the belt. It cracks as it meets the back of Jason’s thighs. He squeezes his eyes shut, biting down on his tongue to keep from crying out. There is a second crack, followed quickly by a third. 

“You can start apologizing, Doll,” Roman mutters into his ear. 

At once Jason lets out a sob, gripping the desk until his knuckles go white. “I’m so sorry!” he cries. “Oh god, I’m so fucking sorry. I belong to you, I  _ know _ I do, I would never betray you—”

His voice breaks as the belt cuts across upper thighs. He tries again, forcing out his words between sobs and the snap of the belt against his skin. 

“I’m sorry, so so sorry—”  _ Crack.  _ “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—”  _ Crack.  _ “I’m your whore—”  _ Crack.  _ “Roman, please!” 

_ Please tell me what’s going on please tell me what I did wrong please tell me I didn’t betray you please please please…  _

“Please?” Roman laughs bitterly. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a pathetic piece of ▉▉▉▉▉▉.” 

Jason whimpers, shutting his eyes as the tears spill over his cheeks. The blows hurt more than they should, more than he remembers them hurting. Every nerve in his body is humming with pain, as if his veins had been replaced with live wires. And each time the belt comes down the pain grows worse and worse until finally he is scre̵a̵m̸ing. 

He thinks maybe this is what Roman wanted all along. 

“I’m sorry!” he cries hoarsely. His thighs have started to bleed; blood trickles slowly down his legs. “I won’t do it again, I won’t don’t do it again, I won’t! I belong to you!” 

A hand closes around his throat, squeezing until his thoughts scramble. “That’s right,” Roman growls in his ear, squeezing tighter. Pressure begins to build in Jason’s head. “You’re my whore.  _ Mine.  _ No one else’s.”

“N—no one else,” Jason forces out. 

“Good boy.” The pressure releases as Roman stands. Though Jason cannot see his face he can conjure its image in his mind: victorious, smug, and disgusted all at once. 

Jason takes long, slow breaths, feeling his chest expand against the cold glass of the desk. Beneath the table he counts four and a half marble tiles. Approximately twenty-five desks could fit in the study. That means there are approximately one hundred and twelve tiles on the floor. 

Roman slaps his ass lightly, though even the lightest touch is enough to sting. “What should I do next?” he hums. “Perhaps I’ll burn my initials into your chest. Would you like that?” 

Jason stays silent. It’s not his turn yet, and Roman doesn’t like it when he speaks out of turn.

“Or maybe,” Roman continues, “I’ll just fuck you, good and hard. Remind you who you belong to.” 

“Yes, Sir,” replies Jason softly. “Please.” 

“Please what, Doll?” 

“Please fuck me.” 

Roman lets out an exhale of a laugh. “Thought so,” he says conversationally, running his hand down the raw length of Jason’s spine. “Give me your hands.” 

When Jason moves he moves slowly, wincing as his muscles shift and his wounds sting and burn. He doesn’t try to hide the pain as Roman wraps the belt around his wrists and pulls tight. He doesn’t try to hide the tears as Roman enters him dry and  _ fucks  _ him, tugging on his bound wrists until his shoulders scream. He doesn’t try to hide his sobs as Roman yanks his hair and bites his neck and digs his fingers into the raw skin of his ass. And he doesn’t try to stop the apologies that spill from his lips. 

“M’sorry,” he babbles, tasting the blood and tears that run down his face. “I belong t’you.  _ Please.  _ I’m yours, all yours…” 

Roman’s teeth break skin. His fingers burn and bruise. His tongue says the dirtiest things, disgusting things, things that have Jason shuddering and closing his eyes as if he could shut them out. 

Maybe, he thinks, he  _ did _ spread his legs for someone else. He doesn’t remember it, but then again he doesn’t remember a lot of things. And that sounds like something he would do. After all, Jason is just a mortal. An insect. A whore. 

Yes, that must be right. He deserves this.

Roman comes on Jason’s face this time. Some of it gets in his mouth, his hair. It’s intended to humiliate, and it does. Jason stares at the ground, face and ears and body burning with the desire to disappear. Then Roman walks out of sight and Jason takes short, heavy breaths, waiting for his pulse to calm down. The cold air stings his open wounds and his joints are stiff, and even though he’s still bent over the desk his legs are shaking. 

It’s quiet. He doesn’t know what to do with the quiet. When it’s quiet, he can’t predict what Roman will do next. 

A hand finds his waist, causing him to jump. “My dirty little whore,” Roman murmurs, dragging his hand lightly up Jason’s rib cage. The tingling sensation has him shuddering. “Turn over.” 

It’s difficult, moving with his hands bound behind him. But Jason manages, wriggling onto his back despite the protests of his torn skin, and he stares up at the ceiling and wonders what he must look like, smeared with blood and come and spread naked over Roman’s desk. The answer comes to him easily:  _ a whore. _

“You look so pretty like this,” Roman says, dragging a finger down Jason’s chest. He likes it when Jason looks like a whore. “No one else is ever going to have you again.” 

“No, Sir,” breathes Jason. “Never.” 

Roman smirks. “I know, Doll. I’m going to make sure of that. Hold still.” 

_ Hold still? _ Jason frowns. When he cranes his neck to see what Roman is doing, he finds the man is standing above him, holding a strange object with what appears to be a stamp at one end. The heat of it is extraordinary. 

His eyes go wide as fear floods him. Instinctively he pulls against his restraints, fighting to free himself, twisting his hands, tugging at the belt. The leather holds strong.  _ Is this what he wants? This can’t be what he wants please don’t let it be what he wants—  _

“Sir,” Jason forces out, never taking his eyes off the electric brand. “I thought—”

“There you go, thinking again.” He smiles cruelly. “Shush, Doll. It will be over soon. Then everyone will know who you belong to, always, and we can forget about this whole mess.” 

Jason remains rooted in place, eyes fixed on the electric brand. _RS,_ he reads. Roman Sionis. It’s growing hotter and hotter and he can’t disobey, he can’t disobey, he _can’t,_ but he wants to he wants to _he wa̵n̵t̸s to get u̶p̷ and run̸ ̷a̶w̵a̷y—_

Roman places one hand on his forehead, pressing him down. “Hold  _ still _ , Jason,” he instructs. “I’d  _ hate  _ to have to do this over.” 

The sound comes first, that initial hiss that shifts into a sizzle. Then comes the pain. No, not pain.  _ Agony.  _ Jason’s chest is on fire, his body is on  _ fire, _ and his vision goes white as a scream erupts from his mouth. He screams until his throat is raw and he sobs and sobs and sobs some more and he thinks he feels his tears evaporate as the world burns down around him.

The brand is gone. No more sizzling. Jason gulps down air, afraid to move. He can feel the residual heat sinking into his skin, burning through muscle as it climbs deeper into his body. Everything is white. The smell of it is awful. 

“There, there,” Roman coos. Jason can’t see him but he can  _ feel  _ him, feel the man’s shadow on his face, feel his hands in his hair. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Jason doesn’t say anything because he knows Roman doesn’t want him to, not this time. Tears roll down his cheeks and each time he breathes he feels the muscles of his chest screaming, his blackened skin throbbing. Roman’s initials beat in time with his heart. He closes his eyes and sobs silently. 

Roman likes it when he sobs. 

***

The doctor is not a very nice man. He’s rough with Jason, twisting his limbs and pulling things too tight. And when he’s done he leaves Jason alone in the strange, somber room, naked except for the cuffs around his arms and feet. It’s not long before the cold sinks deep into his bones. 

Jason stares at the fluorescent tube lights and pretends they are warm and glowing, like the fireplace in the penthouse living room. They’re not real flames, of course—fires are messy and unpredictable, and Roman is above such things—but Jason enjoys watching them dance nonetheless. The movement is calming. Pleasant, even. 

Fluorescents are a poor substitute. Too bright and too cool, and not nearly enough to distract him from the throbbing, itching brand over his heart. 

The doctor didn’t give him anything for the pain, but then again he never does. It’s not as if Jason deserves it. Roman would never punish him without reason; everything he does is precise and calculated and  _ necessary.  _ It’s an honor that he even considers Jason worthy enough to discipline. If he were not so forgiving, surely he would have thrown Jason down the elevator shaft and be done with it. 

(Vaguely, Jason recalls the sensation of falling, the paralyzing fear, the last inhale before impact. The residue of a dream, perhaps.)

He looks down, surveys the state of his chest. The skin is blackened and blistered. The smell, disgusting. Some of this is due to the lotion the doctor slathered over his chest: a strange, bluish substance that freezes and burns, then freezes again. Jason wonders if the doctor put some of it on the back of his thighs as well, where angry red stripes and welts sting in the open air. 

When he tries to touch his skin restraints hold him back. There are four of them: two around his wrists, two around his ankles. They’re thick bands of metal that only unlock when someone presses a special button just out of Jason’s reach. Usually Roman is the one to free him, and usually he makes Jason wait hours and hours until he’d do anything, give anything to be freed from the chair. Usually Jason doesn’t have to follow through with it. Usually Roman just likes to hear him beg.

Jason looks down at the restraints, flexing his arms to stare at the tendons just beneath the skin. There is a tapestry of scars as well, tally marks and initials, some he remembers and some he does not. In the cold light of the examination room they appear silver, almost white. The rest of his skin isn’t much better.

He’s so cold. Maybe he is sick already. The doctor  _ did _ tell him that he might get sick, after all. Whores like him aren’t worthy of real medicine. And if he gets sick and dies, then it’s his own fault, isn’t it? Too weak to handle a tiny little burn. 

The thought of death has Jason trembling. He does not want to die. Not again.

Not aga̷i̵n̸?

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” someone snaps from the room over. Roman. Judging by his tone, he is about thirty seconds from losing his temper. “It’s my goddamn property.” 

“Extreme temperatures do extreme damage,” replies the doctor. “You don’t want to mess with the ▉▉▉▉▉▉.” 

“You know me. If it breaks I’ll get a new one.”

The doctor clicks his tongue. Jason thinks he hears the sound of a zipper and a sliver of hop̸e̷ creeps into his chest. If the doctor is leaving, then Jason will be able to get out soon. No more metal cuffs, no more disgusting smells, no more strange, silver rooms that feel as hollow and artificial as he does. 

The brand on his chest begins to itch.  _ Ungrateful whore.  _

Jason wonders once again what he did to deserve the brand, the specifics of it. He searches his memory for a face, a touch, a voice that is not Roman’s. Every so often he thinks he’s found a hint of something, the suggestion of a memory that once was but is no more, like soft footprints in sand. But that’s all there is. Footprints. 

Maybe memory doesn’t matter. Jason knows what he did, what he is, because Roman told him these things. And Roman would never lie. He’s too good for that. 

Another bag unzips and Jason swallows disappointment. He can hear the doctor and Roman continue to converse—Roman’s voice is rich and violent, the doctor’s strict and mildly annoyed—but the words are muffled by the wall. The conversation seems to wobble into the territory of argument. 

Jason’s thighs burn. His chest throbs and itches. The cold has him trembling and turns his mind to fog. Jason thinks he remembers waking up, which means he must have slept at some point, but he’s so very, very tired.

He wants to leave. But he can’t. Roman told him not to.

_ Do not leave this chair, Jason. That’s an order.  _

Shutting his eyes tightly, he leans back in the chair and pictures himself in a better, kinder place. The air is warm and he isn’t in any pain. Maybe this place is a garden with rows of flowers and mossy cobblestones. He’s seen pictures of gardens in books and magazines but Jason doesn’t think he’s ever been in one. Or maybe he has, when he was working with the Batman, but then the Bat beat the memory out of his head.

Yeah, that’s it. Of course Jason has seen a garden before. What kind of person hasn’t?

A sharp pain shoots through his chest. He grits his teeth and doubles over, digging his fingers into the skin around the brand, wishing he could grab the handful of flesh and—

The cuffs are gon̷e̵. 

The cuffs s̸h̷o̵uldn’t be gone.

Jason stares, no longer caring about the pain. He holds his freed, bruised wrists out in front of him. He rolls his freed ankles, lets the blood flow back into his feet. Slowly, cautiously, he steps onto the cold tile floor, rubbing his wrists as he looks around for any sign of the doctor, or of Roman. 

“Sir?” he says quietly. His voice comes out weak and broken. It’s too cold for speech; if the temperature drops another two and a half degrees he’ll be mute entirely. He might even freeze in place. 

Jason takes another step as the world blurs and shifts around him. Something that may be Roman’s voice seeps out from beneath the door in front of him. It’s a small door, eight and a half feet tall and three feet wide. Usually locked. Jason has never been inside, and he can’t remember if it is forbidden. Is it? Is it?

Why is anything forbidd̵e̸n̵, an̷y̶way?

Jason turns the door handle and pushes open the door. 

_ Nonon̸o̴n̶̹̈́ő̶̞̭̎.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !WARNING_MESSAGE  
> This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and "consensual" non-consent.

When he wakes, he wakes with a wildfire in his head. Jason groans softly, covering his eyes to block out the bright light that pours into his vision. One of his arms is numb and the other is wet. It smells like blood.  _ He  _ smells like blood. 

Jason tries to sit up and his head spins with such force that it knocks him back down. Nausea has him salivating, gagging on his own tongue. With all the strength he has he rolls over and dry heaves again and again and again. Sickness rolls up his body in terrible waves from stomach to chest to throat to mouth. Strings of saliva drip from his lips onto the hard surface he’s lying on. Tile? Wood? Everything is white. He can’t see six inches from his face. But he can hear, and the crushing silence of the room tells him he’s alo̶n̵e̸. 

Closing his eyes, Jason tries to find his latest memory. He remembers being cold, and he remembers the feel of metal beneath his skin. His chest itches and burns as he thinks he remembers a brand being pressed against his skin, the hiss of it as it melted him away. 

“He—hello?” he chokes out. His voice comes back to him quickly. Whatever room he’s in, it’s small. Jason estimates that it’s no larger than sixty square feet. Perhaps less, if the ceiling is high. 

Jason tries once again to peel himself off the floor. It’s no use. His head rages and reels and his stomach lurches. There are sharp pains along the ladder of his ribs and throbbing ones inside the flesh of his thighs and stomach and face and neck. When he licks his lips he tastes blood. When he moves, even slightly, he feels dry blood cracking in his joints. His left arm is useless, a heavy thing attached to his shoulder. There is a pool of something wet beneath his right side. He tastes it: blood. It belongs to him.

If his head were working, Jason would better be able to assess his injuries. But as he is, all he can tell is that he has been beaten, badly. 

_ Batman,  _ he thinks instinctively, then shoves aside the thought. If Batman has him, then Roman is dead. And Roman can’t die. Not like Ja̷s̷o̷n. 

He spits again, and two of his teeth jiggle inside his mouth. The entirety of his jaw throbs with every beat of his heart. He prods the loose teeth with his tongue, pushes them out of place and toward the soft flesh of his cheek until he hears a  _ click _ . When he relents, they slide back into place. Three more of his teeth seem to be cracked open. Their sharp edges slice his tongue. 

_ That will have to be fixed,  _ he thinks stupidly. Roman hates it when Jason’s teeth get in the way, and he’ll hate it even more if they are sharp. 

Maybe that’s why he is where he is. Maybe he used his teeth and that made Roman unhappy.

Is Roman unhappy? 

_ You dirty little slut, _ Roman had said.  _ You fucking whore. _

It all comes back to Jason now. Betraying Roman’s trust. The brand. Disobeying Roman’s orders. Jason doesn’t remember which order he disobeyed, but it must have been a big one, judging by the extent of his injuries. Roman is a reasonable man, and would never punish him so without reason. 

Jason uses his good arm to push himself into a sitting position and blinks rapidly, trying once more to make out anything beyond the vague shape of his body. Nothing. Only white. 

“Sir?” he tries, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Sir where—where am I? What’s going on?” 

There’s no response. When Jason tries to stand, he manages to only push himself an inch across the floor. His back hits a hard wall and the throbbing in his head grows so powerful he can taste his own heartbeat. A high-pitched ringing fills his ears, quiet but unrelenting. It starts to grow louder.

Jason takes a shaky breath and tries once again, swallowing the panic that buzzes inside his chest. “Sir?”

_ Please tell me what you want, please please please I’m lost without you— _

The ringing increases in volume. Higher and louder, filling Jason’s ears with knives and needles and white-hot metal. He tries to throw his hands over his ears but his right arm remains stubbornly at his side. 

_ Eeeeee,  _ screams the sound.  _ Eeeee. Eeeee. Eeee̸e̶e̴̳̓ȩ̴̓̄.  _

All of a sudden sheer terror takes him in an icy grip. Out. He needs to get out.  _ Now̵̗̌.  _

Jason tries to scramble to his feet and falls, smacking his chin against the floor. Pain fills his knees, his jaw. Something hard rolls around his tongue. A tooth. He spits it out and tries again, writhing and twisting desperately until he can push himself up. 

“Sir!” he screams, voice warbled by blood. “Sir, please—”

He meets a wall. Hard. Unforgiving. 

“Sir! Sir,  _ please!”  _ Jason cries, stumbling blindly to his left. Another wall. Another. Another. With his good arm he claws at the hard surface, trying to find a way out, trying to find a way to escape the violent sound—

_ Eeeee. Eeee̸e̶e̴̳̓ȩ̴̓̄e̷̡̢̹ē̴͍̬̯̎.  _

Jason sobs, curling his nails into the wall, scratching at the paint, the plaster. The sound grows louder and louder until it’s all he can hear and feel and taste and smell and  _ think.  _ There is nothing of him left, only the base instinct that accompanies overwhelming fear. 

pain and loud and pain and loud and scared and Roman and pain and loud a do̸o̶͇̅r and scared and pain and bodie̴s̴ and pain loud pain pain̸ p̵a̶i̸̼̾n̶͉͑ 

He doesn’t realize he’s collapsing until his back hits the floor. His teeth rattle. Every part of him sings with pain and a scream forces its way out of his lungs and joins the ringing in the air. The pain doesn’t go away. Nothing goes away. 

Over the violence of the sound, Jason recovers enough of himself to realize: Roman wants him to be in pain. This must be part of the punishment. When Jason is in pain, it is because Roman wills it. Nothing happens without his consent. 

“I’m sorry,” Jason whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could possibly block out the sound. Even when his eyes are shut he sees only white. Terror has his blood frozen in his veins, has him babbling frantically into the crook of his dead arm. “M’ so sorry. I’m—I’m sorry. Please. I love you, I promise.  _ Please.” _

But it’s not good enough. Of course it’s not. Jason deserves this, this—

pain and loud and pain and terror and—

_ Eeeeee. _

—and pain and loud a door and his hand̷ is on the do̸o̶͇̅r—

_ Eeeeee̸e̶. _

—and bodies̴ and bo̸d̸ie̴s̴ and why do they look like ▉▉—

_ Eeee̸e̶e̴̳̓ȩ̴̓̄e̷̡̢̹ē̴͍̬̯̎. _

***

Jason has been inside the room for six hours and twenty-seven minutes. He has been awake the entire time. Something tells him that if this goes on for much longer, he will start to break. Jason is so easy to break.

Since the beginning of the sixth hour, he has been lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. What he assumes is the ceiling. He can see some things now. The bridge of his nose, the flutter of his eyelashes. His body is a mass of black and white and red. Maybe there is a joke there. 

The ringing sound continues. Right now Jason isn’t terrified, but he assumes he will be again soon. It’s been coming in waves cut by alternating episodes of numbness and despair. He thinks maybe he is in a numb episode right now. Or is it despair? Surely he should be devastated: he disobeyed Roman, and now he is alone. 

Without Roman, Jason is nothing.

Except when he touches his cheek with his good hand, Jason finds they are dry. So he’s numb then. That makes sense. While the pain remains sharp as ever, his body feels heavy and slow, like a glacier cutting through a canyon. Something tells him he can’t go on much longer. 

Six hours and twenty-e̸ight minutes. 

Six hours and twenty-ni̸n̶e̵ minutes. 

Thirt̸y̵.

It’s only when he hears the unmistakable sound of a door opening that Jason realizes the ringing has stopped. For a moment his heart stops, and then it leaps into his mouth. With the last of his strength, Jason forces himself onto his knees and assumes a submissive stance. 

_ Please,  _ he thinks. 

“Jason,” a shadow says. It’s Roman.

A sob of relief escapes Jason’s lips. Except it doesn’t, because his vocal chords are shot. Painfully weak. His mouth is filled with the taste of blood, or maybe that’s from his broken, crunching teeth. 

“Look what you’ve made me do to you,” Roman continues. “My sweet doll. Broken beyond repair.”

_ I’m sorry,  _ Jason tries to say, but all that comes out is a hiss. He stares at his knees with unfocused eyes, feeling shame and tears welling up inside. 

With a disappointed sigh, Roman takes two short strides over to him and kneels to the ground. The smell of his cologne is intoxicatingly rich. Jason wishes he could have the comfort of seeing his features, if only so he could know what Roman wants. As things are, he can only make out the shape of him, the color. 

There are fingers on his chin, lifting his head. “Jesus Christ,” Roman mutters. “I knew you were weak, but this? A child would do better.”

“Ssss,” Jason says.  _ I’m sorry. _

A fist slams into his jaw. Pain erupts over his face as the shock of the blow spreads through him. Blood wells up inside his mouth. His teeth crunch. 

“Don’t speak,” Roman hisses. “Your voice disgusts me.” 

Somehow, Jason is aware that he is blushing. He looks away even though there’s no reason too.  _ I’m sorry.  _

Roman’s hand leaves Jason’s face and falls to his chest. With one finger he begins to trace the brand, following the curve of the  _ S,  _ touching light enough to cause little pain. Or maybe there’s just too much pain already. “Tell me, Jason,” he mutters, “do you think you have learned your lesson?” 

Jason nods.  _ Please.  _

“Do you think you deserve to live?”

A trick question. Jason pauses, not quite sure what answer Roman is looking for. Finally, he bows his head and closes his eyes. Roman likes it when he’s submissive. 

“I thought so,” Roman says. Jason figures there’s a ninety-three percent chance that he is smirking. It is nearly audible in his voice. “Are you afraid to die?”

Fear shoots through his core and Jason nods once more. He doesn’t want to die. Not aga̷i̵n̸. 

“Smart boy.” 

There’s a click of...something, followed by the subtle sound of material swaying in the wind. Through the haze Jason sees something black and then—

A tug on his collar has him falling forward, slamming into the floor. Fresh pain. Jason groans, squeezing his eyes shut and spitting blood. Something hard comes out. A sliver of his tooth. Over the ringing in his jaw he realizes that Roman has leashed him.

“Pathetic,” Roman sighs. “I suppose my expectations were too high.” 

Jason tries to push himself onto his feet but makes it only to his knees. His good arm trembles; his dead arm slips uselessly over the floor. “Ssss…ssss…”

The toe of a shoe slams into his ribs. Jason cries out at the sudden agony, or tries too, and loses his balance again. His hand slips uselessly over the bloodied floor. 

“Come on,” Roman hisses. “Stand up. Stand  _ up, _ you fucking whore.” 

Jason whimpers. Every part of his brain commands him to stand, to obey, but he can’t. Roman wants him to stand and he has to do what Roman wants, he has to, he has t̴o̸—

He can’t. He  _ can’t.  _ He’s a  _ weak fucking slut.  _

“Sssir,” he forces out. “I’m…try—trying…” 

Another blow to the ribs destroys what little progress he’s made. Jason chokes and crumples, curling into himself as pain explodes over the left side of his body. When he hears Roman kneeling and sees the glint of metal he decides there is a ninety-eight percent chance that Roman is going to hurt him again. His stomach twists, but the calculation hardly comes as a surprise.  _ This is what I deserve,  _ Jason thinks.  _ I failed him again.  _

“Fine,” hisses Roman. “If you’re going to act like a bitch, you might as well crawl like one.”

Jason doesn’t know what that means but he decides it is supposed to frighten him because Roman likes it when he’s frightened. At once he shakes his head frantically, tries to scramble away from where he assumes Roman to be. “Pl—please,” he stammers. “No no—” 

It happens so quickly he hardly notices it. A pressure crosses his left ankle, and then his right. Jason’s breath hitches in his throat and his eyes go wide. Then his heart beats once, and the pain hits him. 

His legs are on fire. 

Jason screams. He writhes in agony, grasping at his legs and trying in vain to shut out the sensation of his severed tendons. Hot blood pours over his fingers. His every breath is hysterical and panicked. Then he stops breathing entirely, emptied of everything but the overwhelming pain. 

_ Never gonna walk again never gonna walk again you’re as good as d̸e̴a̸d̷— _

It’s a long time before he feels the tug on his collar again.

“Come on, Jason,” Roman orders. He sounds almost exasperated. “I’m getting rather tired of all this complaining. Get over yourself.”

Jason gets over hi̷m̷s̷elf. 

Taking a shaky breath, he manages to roll over and get onto his hands and knees. The floor is even more slick than it was earlier; when Roman tugs on the leash Jason struggles not to slip. Tears pour down his cheeks and his ankles throb with pain each time he lurches forward. The collar seems to grow tighter each time he takes a sharp inhale, a shaky exhale. Eventually it is choking him. Or maybe it’s something else. 

His arm is a useless weight. 

He can’t walk. 

He’s as good as dead. 

Jason can’t quite make out where Roman is leading him. Based on his understanding of the penthouse, he thinks maybe he is crawling through the second story hallway, somewhere around Roman’s bedroom. He expects Roman will want him to clean the floors after all of this. His severed tendons must be weeping blood. 

They come to a stop in a room made of black and gold shapes.

“Stand,” Roman orders. He gives the leash a sharp tug, causing Jason’s head to snap painfully toward the ceiling.

_ Stand?  _ Jason thinks. Roman can’t be serious, he can’t be—

“I said,  _ stand. _ ” 

The task feels impossible. One arm is useless, and his legs are all but the same. There is hardly any strength left inside him. Still, he whimpers and pushes himself up, shaking as he plants one foot flat against the ground, and then the other. By the time he is upright his whole body is trembling. Jason holds his breath and stares straight ahead, trying to shut out the throbbing heat where his ankles used to be.

Two feet to his left, Roman tuts softly. “Jason, Jason, Jason,” he says slowly, enunciating each syllable as if the taste of it is delicious. “You try so hard to please me.” 

“Y—yes sir.”

“I wasn’t finished.”

Jason swallows and says nothing.  _ Weak,  _ says the voice in his head. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Roman hums. The shape of him begins to walk, behind Jason, in front of him, circling him like a shark. Casually he prods at Jason’s chest, picks up his dead arm and lets it drop. “Perhaps you really have outlived your usefulness.”

“No,” Jason says quickly, then clamps his mouth shut. Renewed fear spikes inside his chest. Though he cannot see, he can picture the twisted anger on Roman’s face. “I…I mean…I’m still yours, Sir. Always.”

There is a pause.

“Do you take me for a fool, Jason?” 

“No, Sir.” 

“Do you think I want to keep a broken doll like you?” 

Jason’s legs threaten to give out beneath him. “N—no, Sir.” 

Roman clicks his tongue, and Jason flinches. He can no longer feel his feet or his torso and he wants very much to lie down and go to sle̵e̶p̵. No, he wants more than that. He wants to run aw̴a̴y̶, to get out and never look bac̶k. He wants to breath fresh air and have no one touch him ev̵e̷r̴ a̴gain. Jason doesn’t want this, has never wanted this, and oh god  _ how could he have ever w̸a̸nte̵d̶ ̷t̸hiss̵— _

“Jason.”

He snaps back to attention, shame flooding his face.  _ What was tha̵t̶?  _

Roman swears beneath his breath. “Fine,” he says, in a tone Jason doesn’t quite understand. “Let’s make the most of your fucking ▉▉▉▉▉▉.” 

Jason’s legs buckle and the world cuts out.

***

When he comes to, he is lying on his back on a soft surface. Silk sheets, 1020 thread count. Jason’s good hand gathers them into his fist, squeezing tight. Though he cannot see them clearly, he can feel the bindings around his wrist, thick ropes Slowly but surely, the rest of his senses come back to him. 

He smells the rich notes of Roman’s cologne and sees the mass of the man hovering over him. He tastes blood. He hears grunts, the slap of flesh against flesh. His body is humming with different pains: piercing ones over his ribs and ankles, throbbing ones between his legs. 

Roman’s voice comes back to him.  _ I want you to scream,  _ he had said.  _ I want you to hate this.  _

It’s like a switch has gone off in his head. At once Jason screams, thrashing and sobbing as Roman fucks into him at a relentless pace. “Stop!” he chokes out, bucking in a weak attempt to get this man, this  _ rapist  _ off of him. “No—fuck _ —please!” _

Roman lets out a cruel chuckle. In the vast whiteness the weight of him shifts as he leans down and forces a wet kiss over Jason’s lips, cutting off his pleas. He groans hotly, wetly, and Jason’s stomach clenches in disgust. 

“Get it out,” he whimpers as the tears keep flowing down his cheeks. That’s right. He’s supposed to be crying. Roman likes it when he cries. “Please. It hurts.” 

But Roman doesn’t stop. Even as his cock splits Jason open he doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking him, pulling his hips back and slamming forward with such force Jason knows it would leave a mark if he had any untouched skin left to bruise. The sound of his pleasure is revolting. 

Jason shakes his head and whimpers. “Stop,” he tries weakly, tasting tears and sweat on his lips. “I don’t—I don’t want this.” 

_ (How could he have ever w̸a̸nte̵d̶ ̷t̸hiss̵—) _

A growl slips out of Roman’s throat. His fingers roam up and down Jason’s torso, skirting over his nipple, digging into the brand. Jason lets out another cry of pain, which only succeeds in making Roman quicken his pace. 

“That’s it,” the man growls. “Scream.”

Jason keeps screaming. His already damaged vocal cords strain and strain and  _ strain  _ until his voice cracks and all that comes out is a hiss. He sobs noiselessly and tries kicking Roman off of him. It’s no use. Jason is so very helpless and weak and  _ mortal  _ compared to Roman. There is nothing he can do. 

Roman is rutting into him brutally, thrusting deep as he can while Jason writhes in pain beneath. He bites Jason’s neck, Jason’s jaw, Jason’s shoulder. Sometimes his teeth even break skin. This seems to please him; with every new spot of blood pleasure rumbles deep inside his chest. 

All Jason can do is sputter and sob. 

“You like that, Doll?” Roman purrs, his voice repulsively hot and wet in Jason’s ear. He keeps going, muttering the most disgusting things, things that have Jason closing his eyes and flinching because that’s exactly what Roman wants.  _ Worthless whore. Fuck yeah. Take it. You’re lucky I care enough to fuck you. Scream for me, Whore. Bitch. Slut.  _

A particularly deep thrust draws an involuntary gasp from Jason. At once he recoils, face heating in humiliation.  _ No,  _ he thinks. This isn’t supposed to feel good. Roman wants it to hurt. He shouldn’t like this, he  _ doesn’t  _ like this, he—

The room comes into sharp focus. Jason sees Roman buried inside him, sees his victorious smirk, sees the wicked hunger behind his eyes. Then the man slams into him at a dizzying speed and Jason’s stomach jumps into his throat. It hits him with the force of a bullet, the nauseating violation of it all, and he can’t help but  _ scream.  _

_ No̸,  _ he thinks.  _ I don’t want this, I don̴’t want— _

“I knew you liked it,” Roman hisses. He withdraws completely before plunging back inside. The strength of it punches the air from Jason’s lungs and draws a chuckle from Roman. “Whore.”

“No!” 

The word tears itself from his throat so quickly it startles Jason. It startles them both. For a moment Roman’s pace relents, and the man hovers above him, an impossible weight shocked into stillness. Only then does Jason realize: he meant it. He  _ meant  _ it. 

What’s wrong with him? 

Suddenly a hand closes around his throat and begins to squeeze. “Shut up!” Roman hisses, picking up where he left off. Each thrust is harder than the last, rougher, unforgiving. They burn. “You’re mine, do you understand? My. Fucking. Plaything.”

Jason chokes. Tears fall freely down his cheeks, and once again his vision flashes white, unbearably hot. He keeps sobbing and he keeps whimpering, and when he can tell Roman’s heartbeat has passed one hundred and twenty beats per minute and the man is twelve seconds away from finishing, Jason shuts his eyes and wishes to be free. 

Roman comes with a growl. He squeezes Jason’s throat tightly as he empties himself, not letting go until his ragged breaths begin to cool. The second he does Jason doesn’t bother gasping. He is too weak for that. All he can do is stare up at the ceiling of Roman’s bedroom, wishing he could be numb. There are too many sensations spreading through his body and his head teeters into territories he doesn’t know what to do with, territories that frighten him

_ Dismiss me,  _ he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut.  _ Please.  _

It hurts when Roman pulls out of him. Jason winces as shame takes his place, filling him so tightly there is no room to breathe.  _ I’m sorry,  _ he wants to say.  _ I don’t know what came over me. I’ve failed you.  _

Again.

“Look at yourself,” Roman orders. 

Jason's eyes fly open. He scans his own body, takes in the absolute wreck of him: he’s more meat than man at this point. Not a single part of him is untouched. His ankles are a ragged, bloodied mess. His legs are flayed open at the thighs and bruised around the knees, same as his ribs. When his eyes fall onto his left arm, Jason chokes down a sob. 

Mangled. That’s the only word that comes to his mind. Like someone’s wrenched all the joints three hundred and sixty degrees before opening the skin and tearing out all the tendons. 

(In the back of his head, he hears Roman’s voice.  _ We’re gonna have some fu̵n̴…)  _

“Oh my boy,” Roman says, tutting softly. “That looks like it hurts quite a bit.” 

“Y—yes, Sir.” 

“I’ve tried, Jason. Really, I’ve tried. And yet you consistently let me down.” The man shakes his head as he crosses the room, sighing deeply. “And now look what you’ve made me do. Utterly ruined. I doubt you’ll be any use to me dragging that thing around until you die.” 

“I’m…I’m sorry.” 

“I didn’t ask for an apology, Doll.” 

Dread stirs in the pit of Jason’s stomach. “Yes, Sir.” 

A smirking shadow falls over his face. Roman. From this angle he fills the entirety of Jason’s vision. The world is white and black and silver. “I could fix you, of course” he says casually. “Have you all patched up and made good as new. But I find it’s easier to just do this.” 

There is a dull thud. Jason blinks, brow furrowing in confusion. It’s not until he sees the severed arm that the pain truly hits him.

Jason screams. 

He didn’t know that there were any screams left inside him. But here they are: raw and harrowing. Jason keeps screaming as the agony and horror travels inch by excruciating inch across his chest and down into his core. He can’t even think; the thoughts mash together in his head until they are nothing but one unending string of fear. 

_ pain and pain it’s gone and pain and Roman and please i don̴’t want this pain pain pain̸ p̵a̶i̸̼̾n̶͉͑ p̶̺͆̎a̴͓í̴̼͎n̵̗̔ _

It takes eighteen and one half seconds for the shock to wear off. When it does, Jason pants rapidly, his whole chest heaving with the effort of it. Through the mess of his tears he sees Roman prodding at his arm—the thing that was his arm—with the blade of a butcher’s knife. 

“How fragile you are,” Roman muses. The blade slips under the skin, parts the mangled flesh. The sound it makes is nauseating. “I had my hopes, but… Ah well. All good things, yes?”

Jason tries to speak, but only a sob passes his lips. 

_ (pain pain̸ p̵a̶i̸̼̾n̶͉͑ ) _

Roman looks at him sharply. “▉aulty piece of shit,” he hisses.

“I—” Jason swallows and closes his eyes, recoiling as another wave of excruciating pa _ in̸ _ passes through his body. He can’t stand the sight of himself. Of the bro̶k̵en pieces of him. “I’m sorry.”

There is a moment of silence, and then a  _ click  _ echoes through the room, jolting Jason back to reality. He looks over at Roman, who—When did he have time to get a gun? Why is he holding a gu̴n̸?

“Oh Doll,” Roman sighs. “I am growing tired of your apologies.” 

_ Nonon̸o̴n̶̹̈́ő̶̞̭̎— _

The last thing Jason feels is the bullet̵ ̶tearing̴ throu̷g̴h hi̴s̴ ̶sk̶ul̸͖͝l̴̩͆.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
